Tower & Knife 03 - The Tower Broken (35 page)

But it had not been Sarmin who wanted Fryth, he reminded himself. It had been Emperor Tuvaini, who had sat on the Petal Throne for mere weeks.

And how long will Sarmin last? Who will take his place?

They passed into a plainer corridor and Didryk realised Azeem was taking a longer route – buying time? What was happening in the throne room? He knew he would never get anything out of the man, who was unflappable in his ability to give every kind of polite answer except for the one Didryk sought. He gritted his teeth.

A group of Blue Shields approached and he saw a prisoner in their midst, wrapped in the red robes of an austere.

Adam
.

At last his rage found a focus. He had found it impossible to hate Sarmin in all his strange nobility, or Azeem and his calm diplomacy, the guards, with their firm commitment to duty – he had been unable to dislike even the earnest young mage, who remained so determined to defend his city, as Didryk himself once had been … but the second austere stood before him now – Adam, who had so calmly accepted the ravages of Yrkmir and its first austere; Adam who had stood by and let Kavic be slaughtered; Adam who had once been his teacher. Now he turned his face towards Didryk, perhaps sensing the fury rolling from him, and their eyes met.

‘Didryk.’ Adam spoke in rapid Frythian, ‘You were right about Yrkmir. They want to start it all again—’ A Blue Shield hit him in the gut with the hilt of his sword. ‘The first austere is mad. I let the boy go – the emperor must believe me!’ Another blow and he fell silent, drooping in the arms of the soldiers. They dragged him down a set of stairs that led to a heavy door. The dungeon.

Through it all Didryk said not a word, and his men stood still and silent behind him.

Adam was a zealot, blind to all but his own mission, never seeing the damage he did, and yet always ready to judge, to punish. But his instinct was to save souls, not destroy them.

After all your grand plans you will end up beneath the palace in a dark cell, my teacher
. Didryk did not feel the satisfaction he had expected.

Azeem led him on without expression. ‘I will take you to your quarters.’

Didryk had no choice but to continue on the path he had
begun, to help the emperor against Yrkmir. ‘If I may request parchments and ink – I could make the mage Farid a guide for Mogyrk’s symbols and their meanings.’

‘Of course: parchment and ink will be delivered to your rooms shortly.’ Azeem’s shoulders relaxed.

‘Thank you, Lord High Vizier.’

As they moved through the door to the Great Hall, High Priest Dinar entered on the other side, coming from the throne room. Didryk’s feet slowed and stopped as he came under the focus of the priest’s snakelike eyes. They faced one another for some time, unmoving. Dinar meant to unnerve him, to frighten and intimidate, but Didryk did not flinch or look away; he poured all of his frustration into their unspoken battle, and at last Dinar laughed and turned away.

Didryk called it a small victory.

‘Give us the word, my lord, and we will cut him down,’ Indri said.

‘There will be no cutting down of anyone.’ That was why he had got in the habit of leaving his guards in the room. They were too prone to think of honour before sense.

They passed through the vestibule and made for a back stairway.

‘Did you enjoy the visit with your friend, Duke Didryk?’

Surely the vizier only meant to be polite, but the question was out of tune and it hit Didryk where he was sore. ‘It was as I expected.’ Then he asked in a cutting way, ‘Do you have friends, Lord High Vizier?’

Azeem paused. ‘In my position one does not have friends. Perhaps when I retire, I will play Settu with the other old men.’

‘Perhaps.’ Didryk took the steps two and three at a time.
Azeem, being shorter, had to hurry to keep up. When they reached the corridor Didryk continued to outpace him until he arrived at his room.

As Krys and Indri went inside he turned back and asked the grand vizier a question. ‘Who is your patron god, Azeem?’

Azeem froze and looked down the length of the corridor at him.

‘Is it Herzu, god of war and famine? The patron god of this palace?’ He expected the man to say yes; then he could tell him exactly what he thought of his so-called god.

‘No.’ Azeem held his hands out before him. ‘It is Mirra, goddess of fertility, who makes life in the desert possible.’

‘Mirra,’ Didryk repeated. He had not guessed that. With his line of attack stalled, he had nothing to do but retreat. ‘Thank you, Azeem.’ He went inside and shut the door.

Mesema sat in the rooftop garden in the lowering dark. In the west, she saw the river and the Holies, and beyond them, the western wall and the gathering of the Yrkmir army. Their campfires appeared, one by one, as pinpricks of light against the shadowed sands, like stars in the night sky. But stars were nothing compared to the conflagration in the north. There, arcane fires of blue and orange wove their threads across the front of the Great Storm, forming a tapestry that blazed against the horizon, five times higher than the walls and stretching far into the western sands. The wall, the water that ran through it and the northern dunes were lit as if by day – but the Yrkmen camped far enough to the south that darkness yet fell upon them.

Mesema had begun to lose confidence they would succeed. Sarmin had not found a way to heal the Storm, and though it appeared Govnan had bought them some time, there was precious little of it left. She had not forgotten the pale sickness, how it had drained Pelar – he had been so fragile, so weak. And what the high mage blocked for them was nothing compared to Mogyrk’s Scar.

Now the only enemy who had ever captured the palace had returned. Mesema did not care to think of what might
occur should the Yrkmen sack Nooria – what might happen to Sarmin, to herself … She wondered where Nessaket had gone, whether she was safe and could remain so. She sorely missed the Empire Mother’s advice. Nessaket had warned her of Arigu and cautioned her to stay away from Banreh, and she had ignored her and made a mess of things. Besides the emperor, Arigu and Dinar were the most influential men at court. And together … she thought of the few men who remained in the city. While all of them might be relied upon to support Sarmin in other matters, this might drive half of them away – those who were military men and admired Arigu, and those too devout to oppose the high priest of Herzu. The pressure to put her aside would be strong, but Sarmin would refuse; she knew that. And his continued refusal would put him in a precarious position.

Surely the two would not make their play in a time of crisis? And yet it had happened before: it was during the height of the pattern-sickness that Tuvaini had manoeuvred his way to the throne. The soldiers had come to take Beyon’s wives – she still dreamed of that night, the terror in the women’s faces, how the blood had spilled across the floor. She glanced at her men who hovered by the stairs. If Arigu sent his soldiers after her, Sendhil and the others would be little protection against them. But with Pelar safely out of their reach there was nobody to put in Sarmin’s place – unless they meant to use Daveed.

No
. Nessaket would not allow it; she would never be part of such a plan again. This was a simple power play, nothing more, men jockeying for position and influence. Not another coup. She would be in a better position now if she had been able to find the slaves – but she had run out of time … all of Nooria had run out of time.

At least she did not feel Banreh’s pain as she had before. Now it whispered behind her thoughts, like grief, and she was glad of it, for she needed a clear mind. She gazed up at the statue of Mirra that rose above the bench, Her finely carved eyes flickering in the light from the torches, and for the Empire Mother’s sake Mesema said a prayer.

A whisper of footsteps came upon the stairs and the guards shifted to allow Grada, lithe and liquid, to step through their midst. She looked at each of the men in turn before stopping at the bench. She watched Mesema, the blunt features of her face lost in shadow, until finally she said, ‘Your Majesty.’

Mesema inclined her head at the Knife in the way of her own people. ‘Grada.’

‘May I speak to you privately, my Empress?’

Mesema nodded and waved the guards back down the stairs, out of earshot, and the Knife waited, listening, until she was sure they were alone.

Then she bent down and in Mesema’s ear whispered, ‘Do you trust each of those guardsmen with your life?’

‘Of course!’

‘Don’t answer too quickly, Empress.’ Grada’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Think carefully on each one.’

Mesema stood up and paced to the statue of Mirra and back again. The fire in the north cast the goddess’ face in darkness. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted at last.

‘One of them has told stories: he said you went out into the city to see Banreh before he came to the palace, and afterwards you went into the dungeon to see him again.’

‘But they couldn’t know I went to the dungeon – I did not take them, or tell them.’ Mesema clutched her roiling stomach.
‘And you’re the only one who knows I was in the city, and why – that was nothing to do with Banreh.’

‘Then how?’

Mesema shrugged. ‘Perhaps someone followed me? But you would have noticed, Grada.’

‘Meere has heard the rumours, and they are said to come from one of your men.’ Grada frowned. ‘That could be a lie, but I think they would not risk an untruth, not when their message is so important. They want to remove your influence over the emperor, and replace you with Arigu’s niece. They find him too … soft … in your company.’

‘His niece, is it?’ Mesema wiped sweat from her forehead. Arigu had helped Tuvaini against Beyon; he did not move without a powerful ally to cover him. He was a coward. Sarmin would face down all of Yrkmir by himself if need be, but men like Arigu and Dinar sneaked and whispered. It disgusted her. ‘Dinar is working with the general, and he has just caught me with the prisoner again.’

‘Your Majesty …’ Grada seemed about to curse, but she held her tongue.

Mesema knew she had made a mess of things; she needed no reminder. ‘Listen, do not be angry with me. It will not alter the situation.’

Grada sighed and touched the twisted hilt of her Knife. ‘You must change your guard.’

‘No.’ When Grada frowned, she added, ‘If I do, they will know I am afraid. If I keep the same guard it will show I have no reason to be ashamed – and I will not provide them any further gossip.’

‘I am only concerned that this is more serious than it seems. Daveed—’

‘That has occurred to me too,’ Mesema admitted in a low voice. ‘But I do not believe it. This can wait until after the battle … if we survive.’

Grada gave a slight bow. ‘If that is your decision, Your Majesty. But know that the Knife of Heaven will serve the empire if required.’ Mesema did not know whether Grada meant by that she would kill Dinar, Arigu or the child. The comfort she had felt with the Knife dropped away: Grada could kill even Sarmin, if she thought there was a call for it. She had been relaxed, as if confiding in a friend, but Grada was no friend, nor was Nessaket. Even Sarmin had to balance his affection for her with the demands of empire. She had no friends.

She returned to the bench and faced the great web of fire. It had grown, stretching its tendrils higher into the air, adding green and yellow to its mix of colours. She had heard those in Fryth and Yrkmir could sometimes see bright lights in the northern sky and now she wondered if the army camped before the walls saw any similarity here. But such curiosity no longer mattered; it would never come to anything. They had failed.
She
had failed.

The heat pressed against her skin; the Storm stood in the way of the mountain wind. And yet a small breeze picked up, blowing petals and dead leaves in a tiny whirlwind around her feet. They rose and blew through the hands of Mirra’s statue, then drifted towards Mesema, settling all around her with gentle touches of rose-scent.

Mesema knelt before the stone goddess. Mirra had sent her a message, just as She had so many months ago, in a different garden, out in the desert. Mesema stood and studied the carved face, limned by the coloured lights of Govnan’s fires. Healing, peace, the growing of things: that was Mirra’s way – but it
worked
after
wars, not during them. With soldiers camped outside the walls it did not seem to be Mirra’s time, but perhaps that was the point – it was easy to follow one’s beliefs when they were not being tested. It was always Mesema’s impulse to look for peace, to love, and she thought she had failed – but Mirra had faith in her. Perhaps there was still something she could do. If this was the only sign she was to receive, then she would pay attention. ‘Thank you, Goddess,’ she said aloud, ‘I will honour you as best I can.’ Light played along Mirra’s arms as if in answer.

Sarmin waited at her door, his eyes shadowed with fatigue. At first he leaned on the wall, his eyes on the rug, and she thought he was too tired even to meet her gaze. But then at last he found his way in, closed the door and settled on her cushioned bench, facing away from the mirror. He leaned forwards and put his head in his hands. ‘We have found Adam, but not my mother or brother. He says he let my brother go. I fear the first austere’s hand in this.’

She went to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I regained my pattern-sight, but I can do nothing with it – it is like seeing the words, but not being able to read them. Neither Didryk nor Farid have the talent I once had. Yrkmir waits – the first austere waits – and Govnan cannot last forever. Mesema’ – he reached up and took her hand – ‘I wish I had sent you south. I wish my mother—’

‘I know.’

‘I think the duke regrets his alliance with me. The Yrkmen are strong, and their first austere has magics I cannot touch – not as I am. But I have both Adam and the duke, which is what they want. I could hand them over, say the words of love for Mogyrk … but would it save us?’

She thought of the Red Hooves her father had held captive,
and the things they had preached to one another while she played in the grass. ‘No, it would not. Listen: they want to wipe the world clean so that when it dawns again, all will be new. To them we are nothing more than filth to be washed away.’